


This House

by nasal



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: College AU, Gift Fic, M/M, Secret Santa, and they were HOUSEMATES, background washnut, oh my god they were housemates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28287777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasal/pseuds/nasal
Summary: Dick has made the his first choice: to go to college despite his parent's wishes.As a final fuck-you, he's dumped on the front porch of the most decrepit, shitty-excuse for house.There's a lot he doesn't know, about life in the outside world, and about himself; he'll need to rely on his strange new housemates if he is to stand a chance.
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	This House

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LilRadRidingHood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilRadRidingHood/gifts).



> Written for the rvb secret santa.
> 
> Boy this was a long one! I have a lot of material from this AU, I hope you enjoy reading it, LilRadRidingHood!

When his brother drops him off, Simmons thinks it's one big joke. 

It has to be, there's no way this is the correct address. When his brother offered to find him a place to live closer to university he thought Alex was extending an olive branch, a move of solidarity between brothers to commemorate little Richard standing up for himself and finally saying no to their father and making his own decisions.

Peeling paint, a front yard overgrown with weeds, and garbage _everywhere_. Toilet paper flung onto the roof, empty bottles and broken glass. As if to add insult, an honest-to-god _real person_ stumbles out of one of the bushes, groaning in pain, and flees down the street, no doubt being chased by the terrible life decisions he made last night.

This house—this _dump_ —is where he's going to stay for his entire tertiary career, a place his own brother handpicked out of what Simmons imagines had been a cornucopia of barely liveable rentals for him to suffer in. Because his brother is —and had never been anything other than— a gigantic asshole.

 _Of course_ he would not be on Simmons' side. Why pass up the final chance of humiliating Simmons? Why go against a lifetime of being the Golden Child Who Could Do No Wrong to stand by his little brother and his decision to _not_ join the military like the rest of the men in his family, and study computer science instead? Simmons should have known it had been too good to be true, to hope that _Junior_ would experience an ounce of sympathy for him for the first time in his life, and maybe consider helping him rather than remain in their father's good graces. 

His brother's laugh as he drives away echoes in his head.

What an idiot he had been.

He meets one of his housemates in the kitchen cleaning up.

The first one is peppy, far too happy to match the awful, awful mess inside. He's _sparkling._ Literally, it's like he tripped and fell into an vat of molten glitter and now he shines like a vampire from a shitty novel. And Simmons is seeing a lot of glitter right now, what with the sexy cowboy ensemble this complete stranger is wearing in front of him. 

"Oh, hello! Did you only just get here? You kinda missed the party."

College party. Right, that's why the house was so filthy. This is just the aftermath of a _party,_ not the house's default setting.

He clears his throat, "Actually, I'm the new tenant?" He's saying it like it's a question because he's hoping there's a chance sparkly guy will tell him his moving to the house next door.

No such luck, of course. The cowboy introduces himself as Franklin Donut ("Just Donut is fine!"), and hands him a garbage bag. Normally, Simmons would abhor the idea of spending his first day in a new place cleaning it up, but the weeks leading up to this moment have been an ocean of anxiety, and his brain needs the dopamine rush of a completed task. Even if the task was delegated by a man in assless chaps.

"Is your stuff outside?"

Yes, thrown carelessly on the curb by his brother. Simmons nods.

"We'll get Caboose to grab those for you."

Michael Caboose is another of his housemates. He walks in from the backdoor carrying four garbage bags and drops them all in his excitement when he's introduced to Simmons.

"New friend!" He cries.

Simmons is glad Donut was there to stop Caboose for going in for the hug, because Caboose is massive. Simmons is a tall guy himself, there aren't that many people who match him at eye level, and Caboose is one of those people. Except, while Simmons is lanky and awkward about his height, Caboose has the muscles to match it. Simmons doesn't want to check himself into the hospital with broken ribs on his first day of living out of home. 

Simmons has a feeling that Caboose is one of those dumb jock stereotypes. A guy who put all his stats into strength and none into intelligence. When Donut asks him to fetch Simmons' luggage from the street he has to remind him to use his 'gentle touch', and Caboose nods back at him in understanding, and _tiptoes_ out of the house. 

Weird guy.

But not as bad as _Lavernius Tucker_.

When it's time to show him his room, Donut swears up and down that Simmons' room was untouched by the party. Which it was. Save for the naked black guy sleeping in his bed.

He screams. Donut screams. Caboose screams (in solidarity and from the living room). The guy wakes up and falls off the bed. He screams too. 

Simmons wonders what he did in his past life to warrant this. He's an hour into independence and he's already seen enough ass to last a lifetime. 

The fourth and final housemate emerges from his room hours later, when everything is almost done. Even Tucker had gotten dressed and helped (he wasn't so bad once he was fully clothed, he had even _apologized_ ), but Dexter Grif breezes past all of them, looking and smelling like he had just rolled out of bed and heads for the door. Fat and unclean.

"Aren't you going to help?" Simmons asks incredulous.

"Nope." Grif says, not bothering to learn Simmons' name. Fat, unclean, and lazy. He likes Grif the _least_.

When it's all done, Simmons takes note of the house. Clearly, his brother had only bothered to looks at the outside of all the listings, because the interior wasn't _terrible_. The furniture was cheap and there were stains on the walls and carpet, but it was _okay_. It was nothing like he was used to, but he knew he would be downsizing and he could deal with okay as long it was clean and orderly. His brother had picked this house because he knew that Simmons would have to accept it no matter what, because going back home, or even choosing to live somewhere else would mean defeat. It would mean admitting to his parents that he couldn't do it, that his little tantrum—as his mother had called it— was nothing more than a weak attempt to rebel.

Simmons knows why he's here, in this house; he's been set up to fail. He knows what everyone's expecting of him, he knows that if he folds his family will never let him forget it. He _has_ to make this work, because he's not getting another chance.

~o0o~

Simmons is brittle and stretched too thin. His classes are hard and his housemates are a nightmare. Not a day goes by where someone in the house does something inexplicably, mind-boggingly stupid, it has Simmons tearing out his hair. It feels like he's living with animals. Donut dries his underwear in the microwave, and he waits in the kitchen, completely nude, for them to be done. Caboose forgets about the glass sliding leading to the back porch and one day he just walks straight through it. And underneath that chaos lies a constant disorder, like the cosmic microwave background except it's trash. Dirty dishes, unwashed laundry, dust and grime, and it's all Grif's. Simmons has never met a bigger slob, it's astounding to him that a single human bring can produce so much garbage, and be so inconsiderate to never clean up after himself. Simmons spends most of his time doing it for him.

His parents call him regularly, reveling in the way he stammers and stutters. They're waiting for him to break and go back, and Simmons feels he's coming apart at the seams.

Last night, Tucker came in at an absurdly late hour, as he often did, and tracked mud into the house for Simmons to find in the morning

The only problem is that when he starts yelling, the roles don't reverse. Simmons isn't the unquestionable authority figure and Tucker isn't the timid child being scolded. Tucker shouts back, and Simmons doesn't have enough experience fighting as an equal to know how to do it. He shuts down immediately the moment Tucker raises his voice.

"How about you back the fuck off and leave everyone to their business! Every _goddamn_ day you're up someone's ass about the smallest fucking things. If you hate it here so much, why don't you just leave!"

But Tucker is the one who storms out, slamming the door on his way out. Grif follows him out, so it's just him and Caboose in the living room.

The familiar guilt washes over him, as it does after every fight, now mixed with the shame at not being able to hold his ground. Even when he has every right to get mad, he can't win an argument. He's pathetic.

"I can clean it up," Caboose says, looking at the mud.

Simmons hits pause on his shame spiral to frown at Caboose.

"I'll clean it up, so everyone stops getting mad."

Like a child putting a bandaid on a broken arm, "It's not about that, Caboose."

"I know, it's about Tucker being stupid," he explains. He's not looking at Simmons, rather, his gaze is fixated on the dirty footprints. As always, Simmons has no idea what he's thinking.

Caboose continues, "He stresses and speeds up, and when he speeds up he makes mistakes. It happens all the time."

Simmons nods, slowly understanding. "And," he prompts, "what do you do when that happens?"

Caboose sighs dramatically, like he's the class know-it-all and he's tired of giving everyone the answers. "Give him a gift. Donut gives him chocolate, Grif gives him beer," he pauses. "Yelling doesn't help."

Simmons groans and grinds his forehead on the table, "I think I'm stupid too, Caboose."

Caboose pats his back sympathetically, "I know," he says, "But I like you anyway."

Simmons doesn't understand what a healthy relationship between housemates is supposed to be like. The kind of people he used to live with were not on equal grounds with him. The dynamic was different, one of order and obedience. There had never been gift-giving, or back-patting, or asking for advice. 

Now that he's not living with them, he can't behave like he used to. He can't throw a fit and expect the others to fall in line. He's not in control, they're their own people, and if he wants to succeed he has to get along with them. Cohabitation between equals. He has to do the opposite of what his parents would do.

At that moment, Grif walks back in.

"I'm sorry." Simmons blurts out before he can stop himself.

His housemate stops in his tracks, "Why are you apologising to me?"

"I yell at you the most," he replies. 

"Yeah, but I don't care." Grif snarks, and disappears into his room.

Simmons doesn't care that Grif doesn't care. Grif deserves to be yelled at for all the shit he does in the house, and he'll _never_ stop yelling at him. This is just practice for the real apology.

He finds Tucker sitting in the front porch with a beer in his hand. 

"I'm so—"

"Hey dude, I'm really sorry about what I said back there." Tucker beats him to it. Simmons sighs and joins him on the creaky wooden stairs. "I got a lot on my plate right now, it just all came out at once."

"It's okay," Simmons coughs, "I'll try to be more chill about stuff like that."

"Cool."

And that's the end of that, because neither of them owe the other more. It baffles Simmons how easy it was once his put his pride aside to just _move on_. His parents would normally remain unmoved in their views until the world around them yielded, or enough time had passed that a new fight sprouted up for them to _not_ talk about. Not exactly masters of conflict resolution.

It's a good thing Simmons doesn't have much pride to begin with.

~o0o~

There is a girl in the kitchen.

Simmons has been awake since six am and hasn’t had breakfast, but he can’t leave his room because _there’s a girl in the kitchen_.

He catches a glimpse of her from the hallway. Long, black wavy hair, large build. Has Grif been a girl all this time and he’s just never noticed? It would make every moment Grif's walked around shirtless incredibly awkward, but at least it would make the beard a lot more impressive.

“You perving on my sister?”

Simmons literally jumps in fright when Grif (confirmed not a girl!) materializes behind him. For a guy so big he never makes a sound when he moves.

“I’m not perving!” He hisses back, “I didn't know you had a sister, just took me by surprise. I thought if you ever _did_ have blood relative, they wouldn't be so…” terribly dressed? Loud in the mornings? Real?

“…clean.”

“That's a fucking weird thing to say.”

“Shut up, you're a fucking slob.”

Tucker appears behind them, “Oh, are we perving on Grif’s sister?”

“ _No!_ ” They both snap.

“WHY ARE WE WHISPERING?” Yells Caboose.

Simmons remembers a time in his middle school years when suddenly, and as if in sync, all the girls had come back from summer break _different_. Mascara to bolden their eyes, lip gloss to bring attention to their lips. Some girls wore too much make-up, which was bad, and some girls didn't wear enough, which was also bad. When they asked him if they looked pretty, he was supposed to always say yes even if it wasn't true. And if he said a girl looked pretty that would mean he had a crush, which was _embarrassing and not true_. They always spoke in traps, everything he said was always used against him in some way.

Which is why Simmons bolts for the door, yelling that he was late for class, when Grif pushes him out of the hallway. He's not giving anyone any ammunition, especially Grif's sister, because the pretty ones are always the meanest.

Grif’s sister gets along with everyone in the house, she comes and goes as she pleases. The first time she was there, he got lucky he had an excuse to avoid conversation, but that can’t be the case every time. Simmons now has to brace himself when he leaves his room, or walk through the front door, just in case she’s there. This morning, he’s waited ten minutes in his room, listening intently for signs of life. No one except Grif is home, and he won’t be conscious for at least three hours, so Simmons is confident there is no one else in the house and he can have his tea in peace.

“Hey.”

The mug clatters loudly in the sink as Simmons suffers a tiny heart attack. Are all Grifs masters of stealth?

She stares at him with her big, brown eyes. “You’re the new guy, right? What’s your name?”

A question. He can’t escape.

“…Dick Simmons,” he mumbles.

She raises an eyebrow, amused, and Simmons braces himself for the inevitable—

“ _Dick_ Simmons?”

It’s always the same joke, and Simmons can never play it cool. He’s never been cool in his life, because he can’t even get past his name before girls start laughing. Did his parents name him that on purpose? So he could never make friends with the opposite gender?

“Wow, you really can’t talk to girls, can you?”

Maybe if he ignores her, she’ll go away. Boy, she really looks a lot like Grif, if Grif had boobs and good hygiene. Even though Simmons is much taller, it feels like she’s staring him down, altogether too intimidating in one of Grif’s obscure rock band shirts.

He swallows, “Just Simmons is fine.” He stammers a little, but he’s making eye contact. Small victories.

And she looks satisfied too, enough to extend a hand, “Kaikaina Grif.”

He takes it, and thinks he’s one step closer to finally holding a decent conversation with a girl, until Kaikaina pulls him in to her eye-level and murmurs,

“It was _very_ nice to meet you, Simmons,” through half-lidded eyes.

He'll learn, eventually, that Kaikaina is an incorrigible flirt, and this had been her way to ease tension, but not before ruthlessly teasing him for _squeaking_ and fleeing to his room the first few time she hit on him.

Eventually.

But not for a while. 

~o0o~

Caboose is on the university’s football team. He is dumber than a bag of rocks, and built like a brick shithouse , it makes sense that he is here on a sporting scholarship. Nothing else about him is remotely logical, however. Simmons has seen him run into walls and blink one eye at a time, he breaks every appliance he touches and forgets what he is about to say mid-sentence. The guy should not be able to function let alone thrive, and yet he does and Simmons cannot bring himself to hate him for it. Every evening when he walks through the front door after a stressful day of classes, Caboose greets him with a brilliant smile, like Simmons is his best friend in the whole wide world and his arrival has made Caboose’s day. It is how he greets everyone, but Simmons has never experienced having someone be so genuinely happy to see him.

No one in the house is mean to him either. They are all dicks to each other but never Caboose. Grif had said that it was because Caboose does not register most human interactions—malignant or otherwise— but Simmons suspects that it is actually because bullying Caboose is the equivalent of kicking a puppy.

On top of that, Caboose is shockingly good at football. This year, the university has seen a revival in its sporting success. All thanks to expertly hunted talent from across the country. Simmons has been one interested in sport— his high school stint in the girls’ leagues notwithstanding— but the whole campus is getting behind the football team, so when Donut and Tucker take him to one of the games, he is happy to go along. He admits to them later that it had been fun to watch people bounce off Caboose like pinballs.

At the end of the match, Tucker goes back to the house, but Donut and Caboose _insist_ that Simmons join them and the team for their celebration dinner, and those two are the hardest people to say no to. This is how he finds himself squished into a booth full of rowdy athletes high on their victory, and it’s a mess of back-patting, shoulder-bumps, and leg-brushing; Simmons has never had this much physical contact in his entire _life_. He is sitting next to the quarterback, the guy everyone calls York, and he doesn’t know he’s so close to Simmons that he can see the droplets of water running down his neck from his still-damp hair.

 _Everyone's just come straight from the_ showers, he thinks briefly.

He can't rely on Caboose for conversation tonight—or just in general, now that he thinks about it— and Donut is too busy aggressively flirting with the rookie of the team (Washington, was it?), to invest any time into expanding Simmons' social circle. 

"I'm the team's tight end," Washington says, blushing either from the heat, or by Donut's proximity.

"Oh, I bet it's tight alright." says Donut, and Washington blushes a spectacular shade of red and splutters.

He chats a bit with York, though it feels forced because they have absolutely nothing in common, and the conversation quickly ends. Simmons doesn’t care that no one’s paying attention to him, he’s happy to sit in this strange, hazy cloud and watch everyone be loud around him. 

When it’s well past Caboose’s bed time, Simmons clears his throat and slides out with Caboose in tow. York smiles and says, “It was nice to meet you, Simmons,” then winks at him.

"You're smiling really weird," says Caboose on the walk back.

Simmons scowls back, "Shut up, no I'm not."

~o0o~

"But why did Kerrigan go ahead and become Zerg after all that trouble Raynor went through to save her?"

"Because, Grif, she had to become the leader of the swam in order to defeat Amon!"

"It totally invalidates the campaign of the first game!"

Simmons throws his hands in the air in exasperation, "Oh, I'm sorry, did you play all three campaigns back-to-back in the last two weeks? No? So shut up, I know more than you." 

Grif snorts and takes a sip of his beer, "Whatever, nerd." 

They're on the living room couch watching shitty sci-fi movies as per their Friday night tradition, but derailed themselves into banal discussion about video games (also as per their Friday night tradition). One of the few wisdoms Simmons has learned while living in this house is that he can bitch and moan about a guy and his disgusting habits but still become friends with him. Albeit, reluctantly and against his will. One day they're arguing about something completely arbitrary, and Simmons has this crystalizing moment of clarity that he's _enjoying_ himself, despite it all. Came as a shock, firstly because Simmons had never made a friend in his life, and secondly because the friend he managed to make had been _Grif._

Grif opens his mouth, as if to embarrass himself with how little he knows about _everything_ , but closes it again. 

Simmons narrows his eyes, "What?"

"Nothing, nothing," says Grif, "Just thinking about how much of a smug asshole you are."

 _"Ad_ _Hominem_ ," he quips back "Just because you're _wrong_ doesn't mean you can attack my personality like that." 

"Adhomo—what? See, this is why people make fun of you. You are a huge nerd."

Simmons rolls his eyes, "It's Latin, idiot."

"I don't care about your fancy rich-boy language, if you wanted _sophisticated_ company, why did you pick this house?"

Oh, that's not something he's ready to disclose, not even to Grif. As relaxed as he is around him, Simmons can't just upend a lifetime of baggage when he's only just figuring it out himself. Instead, Simmons hugs his knees and mutters, “I didn't pick this house, my brother did, but I don't want to move. It’s not that—I just…I can do what I want here.”

Grif raises and eyebrow, "You want to clean up after me for the rest of time?" 

It's a lame attempt at banter after the sudden change in atmosphere. It doesn't work because the answer is _yes,_ given the choice between going back to live with his parents and tending to the unkempt man-child he calls his friend, Simmons would choose the latter every time. An improvement on what it would have been like if he hadn't moved away, but still not where he wanted to be in life.

Grif reaches out with the beer can Simmons declined at the beginning of the movie, raising an eyebrow in invitation, and Simmons gingerly takes it. He thinks back on all the decisions he's had to make in the past three months, and how his parents had not been part of a single one. He's not thriving, even by the loosest definition. He still stresses out, and flinches when someone raises their voice, still expects his parents to burst through the door and destroy the tiny scraps of individualism he's cultivated. But he's also not floundering, Simmons knows his head is well above water. 

Grif coughed awkwardly, “I mean, I’ll have it if you—”

Grif thinks he's pressuring Simmons, but that couldn't be further from the truth, “I can do what I want.” He repeats, and takes a brave swig.

…which he immediately spat out.

“It grows on you,” Grif laughs, but he accepts the can back from Simmons anyway.

Beer is disgusting and Simmons doesn't understand why everyone is so hyped up about it, but at least he could say it was disgusting. He tried it, and didn’t like it. And if he never drank it again it was okay because it was his choice and no one else’s

The next night, Tucker corners him in the kitchen with a cooler and horrible intentions. He shoves a bottle in Simmons’ hand and exclaims loudly (for the benefit of Grif, sitting in the living room) that _of course_ Simmons wouldn’t like beer if the only brand he ever tried was the piss water Grif embarrasses himself with. He, Lavernius Tucker, has impeccable taste and would show Simmons was a real drink tasted like.

That night, Simmons learns that alcohol preference is an integral part of one’s personality. His opinion on beer doesn’t change, however.

~o0o~

Simmons does not plan to go back home for the holidays.

When the rest ask Simmons what he’s doing for the summer break, he makes up some excuse about choosing extra credit electives that he could not fit in anywhere else in the year. It’s the same thing he told his parents, and the only reason they would tolerate for him not coming to see them. It’s a lie he won’t be able to repeat, unless he actually takes up an elective next semester break. At least when he told his roommates they only scoffed, called him a nerd, and left it at that.

No one asks Grif what he’s doing. It’s the same thing he always does: nothing. That is until Kaikaina rocks up a day before the semester is supposed to end, with a car that doesn’t belong to her stuffed full things one would need for a trip to the beach. She bursts into the house, bumptious as ever, and drags Grif to the car. They don’t see either of them until classes start again.

Donut’s gone back to his hometown already, theatre kids finish the semester early apparently, and once he was able to secure a ride he was gone. He was out of the house so fast no one noticed he was no longer there, even though Donut insisted that he had said goodbye to everyone. To their face.

Tucker comes and goes erratically as it is, but the comment of ‘spending time with Junior this summer’ is how Simmons learns Tucker had a kid in high school. Suddenly the late night calls, the weekends away, and the defensiveness when it came to being judged as a competent adult made a lot of sense (and it makes Simmons feel like an asshole all over again). Tucker’s son lives with his older brother, who has a six-digit salary and provides for every child under his care. Tucker is putting himself through college so he can do the same. He's gone the day after his last class concludes.

Caboose’s family remains a mystery. Being an unreliable narrator, no one knows a lot about the people who raised him. Every once in a while, a truckload of squealing girls will pull up in the driveway and carry Caboose away, and every time his housemates will be forced to assume it was an impromptu family outing and not a terribly-executed kidnapping. After a random amount of time, they drop Caboose all rosy-cheeked from the attention and arms full of hand-knitted sweaters or candies, depending on the holiday. Summer break had been no different. They heard the ruckus a block away, which served as an early warning system to hold Caboose back before he ran excitedly out of the house and into oncoming traffic. They suspect Caboose and his troop of sisters are all adopted, because none of them look like each other, but it doesn't stop Simmons from feeling a twang of envy whenever he sees such embarrassingly public displays of affection.

Point is, everyone’s gone to be with their families for the next three months, and this bums Simmons out, though he would never admit it. Not because he misses his family (god, no), he was counting on having at least another person (Grif) in the house with him. Now he might as well just take an elective so he has something to do and someone to talk to. 

He flicks through the list of available summer courses. He can’t fault anyone who calls him a nerd when he’d rather study _Research Methods in Psychology_ than go visit his parents.

~o0o~

Donut takes him to the first frat party after classes start again.

After trying beer for the first time and finding it utterly deplorable, Donut takes him by the arm and shows him the awful, awful reality that worse drinks than beer exist. Namely hard liquors. Namely vodka.

“Why does this exist?” Simmons coughs as liquid fire burns his throat from the inside out.

Donut, the madman, grabs another tiny glass and downs the drink like it’s water, “It’s called efficiency, Simmons,” he says, “let the others bloat themselves on rotting wheat juice because it’s manly, I drink less and get drunk quicker.”

Simmons has never been drunk before, but he’s been around people who drank. When he lived at home, he used to think adults only had alcohol to boast about how expensive said alcohol was. His father’s alcohol cabinet has only the finest wines, the oldest cognacs, smokiest whiskeys, which he would sample when an ambassador would visit, or a general, or a movie director.

And it was an insult to drink something even remotely plebeian, which included anything made this century.

“ _Look at what so-and-so deigned acceptable to bring to the dinner party, darling._ ” His mother would say to his father, showing him a bottle a wine that looked like every other bottle of wine. His father would then glance at the bottle and scoff at its supposed inferiority and wave his hand, and a servant would take the bottle away and flush down the kitchen sink. It was just too embarrassing to have it in the house. A gift, not good enough because it was not made in the right time, in the right place, or by the right people.

None of his housemates could ever afford to look at a bottle of the stuff his parents drank, but they would drink it down with as much gusto as they would their off-brand booze from the discount store. No one at this party drinks to impress, rather, they would want to show-off how much they could drink, not what they were rich enough to buy.

Donut hands him a glass—regular sized, this time—with rum and coke.

Turns out alcohol goes down easier when it's mixed with sugar.

They spot York in the backyard trying with fervor to woo the tallest redhead Simmons has ever seen.

“That’s Carolina,” Donut says, “she plays in the basketball team. York’s suuuuper in love with her.”

Simmons cannot see it. Sure, he is smiling that smile that Simmons still thinks about from time to time but that is how he looks at everyone, right? What is so special about Carolina?

“Yep,” continues Donut, “York is devastatingly straight. Which is tragic because—”

On cue, York tries to put his arm around Carolina, and with deceptive ease she shoves him off and straight into Washington, drenching the poor guy in beer.

“…it takes a lot to impress Carolina.”

York pays no mind to a suffering Wash and trots off after her, still thinking he has a chance. In Simmons’ head, he wants him to stop and leave her alone, and maybe smile at him again, but Simmons’ head feels hazy and slow and he wants to sit down so the world can stop swaying.

Washington is not looking so stable himself, his eyes are glazed, and he has decided the best solution to a wet shirt is have no shirt. Suddenly, no one is looking at York.

“Oh my,” says Donut as Washington struggles to get his shirt over his head. He's got front row seats to the show.

“Take off your pants!” someone calls from across the lawn, and Wash, proud off his most recent disrobing, takes up the challenge.

“ _NO_.”

In steps the massive bald guy who was talking to Wash before, to grab his friend by the wrists before can do something stupid. To his credit, Wash does not boo along with the crowd.

Simmons is not paying too much attention, because the heckler had sounded a lot like Kaikaina, and if she was here then that meant—

“Grif!”

His mouth is saying it before his brain registers it. Everything is really swimming now, and there is a warm feeling in his stomach…maybe it’s the rum, maybe it’s Wash's abs, maybe it’s Grif. God, he is just so happy that Grif is here, he’s been waiting all night to talk to him. They were meant to watch Battlestar Galactica tonight but then Donut dragged him out to this party, but then Kaikaina dragged Grif out too and now he was here and everything was great.

“How much has he had, Donut?”

“A shot of vodka and a rum and coke,” he answers, extracting himself from Simmons—when had he draped himself all over Donut? “and I’m done babysitting. I’m off to get some grass-fed American beef!”

Grif blinks, “What?”

But Donut has zeroed in on Wash, with Kai cackling madly behind him, and only Simmons is left to explain.

“Wash took off his shirt and Donut wants to eat him.”

“And you?” Grif raises an eyebrow.

“I’m vegan.”

Which makes Grif laugh, which is weird because he already knew Simmons was vegan? He doesn’t get the joke. Alcohol is making him slow and think less, which is not a bad thing necessarily, but he likes to know whenever he’s being funny, because it almost never happens. And Grif has a nice laugh, Simmons wants to make him do it again.

“Let’s get a drink, you beanpole.”

That sounds like a great idea. Alcohol and Grif sound like the best, most fantastic idea on the planet, and Grif, for the most part, seems content to let Simmons follow him around like the world’s drunkest, gangliest baby duckling.

The rum Simmons is drinking is cheap, and the beer Grif has is even cheaper, it still baffles him how little no one cares. God, Simmons is mixing cheap rum with soft drink , if his parents saw him they would disown him on the spot.

“No, because—listen, shut up, listen…s’not about getting drunk,” his brain is working overtime to get the words out, because it’s important that he gets his message across, Grif just needs to stop leaning forward so much and let him speak. “Issabout status.”

“Status.” Grif repeats.

Simmons nods wisely, “Status.”

Grif snorts—did Simmons make another joke?— “That’s fucking dumb.”

“Nuh-huh!” He stands up straighter, to make his point. “Example. You’re drinking beer, which is the grossest, worstest drink in the entire planet ever,” Grif nods, “I’m drinking rum, a fancy drink. This means I’m better than you.”

“Bullshit! You’re the lightest weight I’ve ever seen, I’m better than you at drinking. I mean, who gets this wasted on three drinks?”

“It’s two and a half, actually.”

Grif nods, “Exactly. Fucking weak, dude.”

Simmons folds his arms petulantly, “Donut says it’s efficient.”

“I wouldn’t take life advice from Donut.” Grif says, which is a bit harsh. At least Donut does his own laundry.

“He took me to this party.” Simmons says dumbly.

“He did.”

“We were meant to watch Battlestar Galactica.”

“We were.”

“And now I’m drunk.”

Grif has his hands on Simmons shoulders, and that’s a good thing because Simmons hadn’t noticed that he was tilting to one side, “I know, Simmons.”

He isn’t laughing but his eyes are twinkling with amusements and god, Grif has a nice smile, and pretty eyes, and large hands. And his face is so chubby. Simmons wants to grab his cheeks and smoosh them together. Wants to grab Grif’s chubby face with the nice smile and kiss it. He wants to kiss it. He wants to kiss Grif.

“Oh no,” he says.

Then he throws up.

.

.

.

Grif opens the door the closet, “Hey Donut, I’m taking—Wash, stop screaming, it’s me—I’m taking Simmons home, he just barfed on my shoes.”

~o0o~

Simmons wakes up in his bed with a terrible stomach ache. When he stumbles into the kitchen to announce that he's dying, he finds no one else but Tucker and glass of water. A semester ago, it had been Simmons dealing with a hungover (and naked) Tucker, and cursing his existence. Last night, he had been the one to tuck Simmons into bed.

In ten minutes, Caboose will trot out of his room, hug both Tucker and Simmons good morning, and watch his cartoons in the living room.

Donut won't come through the front door until well past midday. To anyone else, it would have been a walk of shame, but Donut will strut in, peppy as ever, and high-five Tucker on the way to the shower.

Grif will be the last one, as always. He'll yawn loudly and complain that Simmons owes him a new pair of shoes, but he'll smile and bump Simmons' shoulder as he says it, and Simmons will think about kissing him again. 

Simmons knows why he was _supposed_ to be here.

But staying had stopped being someone else's decision a long time ago. The choices he had made, all of them, were now _his._

His life.

His friends.

His house.

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel maybe? watch this space.


End file.
